The Bodyguard
by 26hannah26
Summary: After losing all his money in a poker game, Don starts moonlighting as a bodyguard for an author with a stalker. How bad could it be? Flack/OC with bonus team appearances, rated T mostly for some bad language. COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N So… I have returned to the world of writing! This is very weird; I said I probably wouldn't be back, yet here I am. I've been beta-ing mostly, but when the mood strikes me I've been working on this little story. I started it almost a year ago now, but I promised myself I wouldn't post it before I'd written the whole thing – I have to confess, it's been difficult for me (and, strictly speaking, it's not entirely finished; I still have to complete the last chapter). If you've read anything of mine before, you'll know that I'm not so great at updating… That will not be the case here, though, so fear not!**

**So, this story is set somewhere before Stella leaves, and also somewhere before Flack ditched those badass suits and started dressing like… well, like someone's dad, quite frankly (like what is up with those brown suede shoes that I've noticed a couple of times?). So yes, when you read this, it is suits, suits and nothing but suits, OK? And this story may or may not be influenced by the Whitney Houston film, _The Bodyguard_ (well, the parts I've seen from the music video of _I Will Always Love You_; full disclosure, I haven't seen the movie). I sincerely hope you enjoy this story!**

* * *

"Shit," Don muttered as the words 'insufficient funds' flashed across the ATM screen. Payday was only two weeks ago, so where had all his money disappeared to?

Well, a depressingly hefty chunk of it had gone to his landlord; that smug bastard who never seemed to be doing anything but couldn't ever find the time to sign off on much-needed improvements to his building. Don was paying out more than half of his paycheck to live in a dank, cold and, quite frankly, squalid walk-up in Flushing – a walk-up with a heating system more temperamental than a teenage girl, and a rats' nest in the basement.

Another big portion went on parking the car that he rarely drove, a high premium charged for keeping it off the road. The rest of his money, he presumed, went on bills and groceries. And if he was being one-hundred percent honest, he drank a fair share of it on Friday nights. But how could he have _nothin__g_ left?

"Money problems, Flack?" Danny asked, coming out of the bodega with a cup of coffee and a sandwich.

Don realised he was still standing scowling at the ATM and turned his attention to his friend, standing there with a shit-eating grin on his face. _That_ was where his money had gone – into the wallet of his poker buddy, and it was probably now being mentally spent by Mrs Messer, who only seemed to approve of her husband's gambling habit when he brought home some green for her. "You in the mood for a rematch?"

"Not a chance – Lindsey'd kill me if I lost _my_ paycheck." The grin was back, and for a second Don felt an overwhelming urge to knock it off his face. "You need a loan?"

"No," Don replied, perhaps a little too quickly. "I got it covered."

* * *

The rest of the work day went quickly, taken up mostly with paperwork and reports – the two things Don hated most about his job.

His mind kept going back to the ATM, and the almost mocking tone of the message he got from it, unable to keep a guilty feeling rising in his gut. One of the things his father had instilled in him from a young age was that a cop's salary isn't much reward for the job they do, which was why it was so important that you didn't turn it all into beer after shift with your partner. It was almost as if dear old dad knew that Donny Jr's bank account was empty and gathering dust…

But he couldn't dwell on that right now – he had to come up with some ways to survive without any money for the next two weeks. He fished his wallet out of his jacket pocket and opened it up, only to be greeted by the faces of Andrew Jackson and the Hamilton twins – forty dollars to last him 14 days.

He supposed, almost reluctantly, that if he packed a lunch for himself each day, using up whatever was in his kitchen, he would save seventy dollars, but would probably sacrifice a slice of his dignity. And he'd stay home this Friday, maybe getting an early night and some much needed sleep in the process. He could take the train to see his parents on the weekend and take advantage of the free, home-cooked meals his mother would no doubt be thrilled to put in front of him. And then it would be back to work on Monday morning, bagged lunch in hand – if he was lucky, he might even be able to pick up some overtime.

As he considered what was sure to be the most boring two weeks of his life, he said a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that they at least went quickly.

Leaning back in his chair, desperate to put any thoughts of money or bills out of his mind, Don scanned the precinct – how did these guys manage it? Hennessey had a drink problem that everyone but him could see plain as day. Olsen had a mistress. Danny had a kid. All of those guys had more outgoings than he did, yet they all managed to keep their heads above the water. He turned his head further, his eyes settling on a relatively new officer called Freeman, and suddenly dollar signs were flashing before his eyes as the solution to his money woes came into view.

* * *

Every kid fresh out of the academy got given the same speech – often slurred as it would usually occur at the bar after the first tour with your training officer – detailing how you can use your badge to make some extra cash if the situation ever arose.

When Don had been hearing that same advice from Moran some fifteen years ago, his rookie mind had jumped to the conclusion that his mentor was telling him to become a male stripper – he laughed to himself now just thinking about it, but truth be told, he was actually considering it for that split second before Moran caught his shocked expression and clarified that he meant _private protection_.

It was a card that Don had never had to play, but now he was not only thinking about it, he was on his way to sign himself up. How hard could it be? Follow some Wall Street-type around for a few weeks while he built up his cash supply and use some vacation time that he wasn't going to need this year anyway, protect that fat-cat from the protestors that littered the Financial District these days, get treated to expense account lunches with the guy, then go home once he'd been safely dropped off back at this penthouse overlooking Central Park – not a hard day's work by anyone's standards. He might even get lucky and be assigned to some hot young heiress in town to spend daddy's money; his hatred of shopping could be overlooked while he followed her around Tiffany's.

* * *

It was six-thirty and as he pushed his way out of the subway station on the upper West Side, he was sure he was making the right decision. He'd flipped through the yellow pages by the payphones earlier, picking out the first private protection firm he saw – well, actually, it was the fact that they displayed their rates on their ad that caught Don's eye. And now here he was, coming to a stop outside a neat brownstone, complete with stoop and window boxes, with a sign on one of the windows on the upper floor reading, 'Klein Security Services' in gilt letters.

Don climbed the steps and was buzzed in through the heavy door, being directed to go to the top floor. He passed what smelled like a dental surgery and what he presumed was a modelling agency, judging by the beautiful women coming and going, on the way up. When he finally came to his destination, he went through another door marked with the same lettering as the signage on the window and introduced himself to the receptionist who had greeted him through the intercom.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked in a heavy Long Island accent. Don was a little taken aback – how busy could this place possibly be?

"Uh… No, I don't. Sorry," he added as an afterthought, still curious as to why he would actually need an appointment.

"Mr Klein is with a client at the moment, but we have an opening in about a half hour. You can wait over there." She nodded towards three plastic chairs opposite her desk, not needing to ask him if he actually _wanted_ to wait – most people who came in did.

He muttered his thanks, put off by the thought that maybe this guy wouldn't be needing to hire anyone else, and slumped down in one of the chairs. Half an hour ticked by excruciatingly slowly, and when fifty minutes had passed he considered cutting his losses and leaving – he'd go somewhere else tomorrow, for now he could survive on boxed mac and cheese and salami. He went to stand up and leave, but the door to what he presumed was Mr Klein's office opened and a burly man in an ill-fitting suit came out; Don had him pegged as a bouncer immediately. He winked at the receptionist on his way out, but she tried to ignore him and instead signalled for Don to go in through the door the bouncer had just come out of.

"Mr Klein?" Don asked as he walked into a small office. The stout man behind the cluttered desk in the centre of the room stood, hand extended. Don took it, looking for somewhere to sit.

"I had to bust up a fight in here last week, alas, the chair was a casualty. You'll have to stand, if that's alright."

"Yes, sir," Don replied, wondering if the fight had really happened or if this was some kind of test. "You are Mr Klein, right?"

"Sorry, yes, I'm Klein. And you are?"

"Flack. Detective," he added.

"That's a good start. You done private protection before"?

"No. But I've been on the job since I left high school. I bought a copy of my jacket, you can see for yourself, I'm capable."

Klein looked at him over his glasses as he was handed a few sheets of folded paper. He gave them a cursory glance, knowing after thirty years in this business what he was looking for, and set them down on top of a pile of similar sheets. "Give your number to Kitty on the desk, I'll call you."

Don frowned. That was it? "I'm not being funny, Mr Klein, but I've heard that one before. So how about you just tell me straight – you looking for guys or not?"

"I am. But, as I'm sure you know, else you wouldn't be here, the economy is a bitch right now. And for me to cut a profit, I've gotta hire the best. Since you have no experience in this business, that ain't you, son."

"Ah, come on! You've got nothing you can give me? Not even a job you're regular guys don't want?" Seeing the smirk on Klein's face, Don regretted asking that last question. Klein seemed to think for a minute, then got up and walked over to a bulging filing cabinet.

"Mr Flack," he began, flicking through the files. "Rightly or wrongly, this is a somewhat – how should I put this – _glamorous_ profession. My men, they all get off on the power trip of walking around in a dark suit and shades, rubbing shoulders with celebrities or tycoons. Every once in a while, we get a job that isn't so prestigious; someone comes along who's your average Joe, nothing to offer _you_, but somewhere along the way they crossed the wrong mob boss or loan shark. And that's where you come in…"

"Let me get this straight – your boys don't want this one because it's some guy from Queens who can't tip them in diamonds or shares in a company?"

"Precisely. You still interested?" Klein found the file he was looking for a held it out.

Don thought for a minute. The prospect of being slipped a little something extra at the end of a long day was appealing to him, but at the moment, he couldn't afford to be picky. He took the file and hardened his gaze.

"I'll take it."


	2. Chapter 2

Don had been sent home with the file detailing who he would be protecting, with instructions to memorize the important details for Monday morning. He had also been told to book as much vacation time as he could, service his gun, gas up his car, and get his best suit dry cleaned. He hadn't exactly budgeted for the dry cleaning part, but he made sure to remember to hang his black two-piece on the back of the front door to his apartment anyway, with the intention of dropping it off at the place down the street on the way to work in the morning.

As he let himself in through that door at eight o'clock that night, his conversation with Klein still buzzing around his head, he wondered if he had made the right choice. Opening his fridge and staring blankly at the empty shelves, he realised it wasn't a choice, and slammed the door again. He grabbed a half-eaten bag of pretzels from that damned poker night, picked up the file, and sat down on the couch. He decided he may as well make a start on sizing this guy up, wondering if it would be mob bosses or loan sharks he'd be dodging next week.

Scanning the print-out, Don was already beginning to build up a picture in his mind of who this person was…

_Name of Client: Tate Ellis_

What kind of name was 'Tate' anyway? Immediately he thought of the college kids he encountered on the weekends, convinced they were bohemians because they were drinking at a dive bar in Brooklyn, despite the fact that all the drinks were paid for by a trust-fund. He continued reading the page.

_Details of Protection: Client is an author who has received stalker-type correspondence from an unknown source. Suspect does not pose an immediate threat, but protection is required while Client is in NYC for two weeks for promotional duties prior to release of first novel._

Probably a typical privately-educated twenty-something, under the deluded impression that he was a modern day Holden Caulfield, only in it to get rich and get laid – maybe it was only considered to be stalking when your obsessed fan wasn't a hot blonde, Don wondered cynically. He already disliked this guy and he'd only read a paragraph about him. The next two weeks were sure to be pure hell…

* * *

As Don pulled up outside Klein's office on Monday morning, he straightened his tie in the rear-view mirror and felt around under the passenger seat for any trash he had missed before – he'd spent Saturday cleaning out a shocking amount of crap from his old (but still professional-looking, he hoped) Honda, and washing down the windows so that they could actually be seen out of, but the junk had always seemed to breed in there. Despite the fact that his client wasn't exactly loaded, he wanted to make a good impression, in case Klein had some more high-profile – and therefore higher paying – clients.

He got out of the car, locked it, and made his way up through the brownstone again, passing the dentist's office and the modelling agency once more. The receptionist greeted him with more of a smile and less of an attitude this time, ushering him straight through to Klein's office.

When he got in there, he saw Klein was also wearing a suit this time – a welcome change from the yellowing shirt and faded slacks he had been wearing the last time Don saw him. He also noted that the three plastic chairs from the waiting area had been brought in; he smirked when he realised that Klein was just as eager to impress as he was.

"Good, you made it," the older man said by way of a greeting, fumbling around on his still-cluttered desk. "You'd be surprised how many newbies flake out on me."

'_No chance of that,_' Don thought, wondering whether he should sit down. "You need a hand?"

"She's gonna be here any second and I've got a bunch of crap for her to sign before you get to work. I really need a better organisation system…"

Before Flack could protest that he was supposed to be babysitting a man with a whacked out groupie, he heard the nasal voice of Klein's receptionist inviting someone else into the office. The door opened, and through it walked someone who was definitely _not_ a man.

* * *

Tate Ellis, a tall red-head who Don suspected was _definitely_ a woman, sat between him and a man she introduced as Josh, her assistant, on the specially set out row of chairs. She seemed nervous, fiddling with the hem of her dress as Klein spoke.

"Now, Ms Ellis, Mr Flack will be your protection officer for the length of your stay in New York. He's worked for me for many years, and he's one of my best men." He glanced quickly at Don, who merely smiled back at him. He knew his time in the eighth grade school play would be useful eventually. "He will be with you at all times when you are out in public, and will pick you up and drop you off at your hotel each day. He will meet you outside your room in the morning, and escort you back to your room at night. He will then be available by phone should you need him. If at any time you decline Mr Flack's services, Klein Security Services will not be held liable for any injury or legal issue caused, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir. And may I just add that I appreciate you finding me an officer on such short notice."

"It wasn't a problem, ma'am, we consider all of our clients a priority." Don had to supress a laugh as Klein lied to her. "Now, if you don't have any questions, let's sign the papers, shall we? Then you can be on your way."


	3. Chapter 3

Don, Tate and Josh left Klein's office together after all the formalities had been taken care of. Don's first assignment as a 'private protection officer' was to take Tate to her hotel – her and Josh's first stop in New York, en route from the airport, was Klein's office. As the trio walked down the brownstone's front steps, Josh went into assistant-mode.

"Alright, so Ms Ellis's bags have already been dropped off and should be waiting in the room. We have an appointment at one o'clock at the Russian Tea Room – Tate, you'll be meeting with a rep from the publisher. Mr Flack, you are to drop her off promptly; if you arrive before one, circle the block until one minute past, then pull up and escort her in." He turned to Tate, "We agreed on the green dress, right? I'd hate to clash."

"I packed the green dress on the top of my case," Tate replied, and Don had to bite his tongue to keep from declaring it a miracle that she had packed _her own _case. Those kinds of comments might fly when he was questioning suspects, but now he imagined he'd be fired on the spot.

"Good. Now, I have to go and check out the location for your first signing – we don't want any nasty surprises when we get there!"

He fumbled around in his messenger bag for a second, and Tate turned to Don and said, almost apologetically, "I think he just wants to make sure everything goes smoothly."

"That's right!" Josh sang out in response, handing Don a laminated itinerary. "If you have any questions, _please_ call me. It's very important that this trip goes well."

"Don't worry, I'll make sure to get Ms Ellis where she needs to be."

"Yes, Josh, stop harassing the man – you heard Mr Klein, he's a pro!" She smiled at Don, and he nodded in agreement. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her, right?

"Alright," Josh said reluctantly. "You'll be alright on your own?"

"I'm not on my own, Josh. Please relax; you'll give yourself a heart attack. Now get out of here." She and Josh hugged quickly, and he scooted off up the street to hail a cab downtown.

* * *

"Let's get going, shall we?" Don asked, gesturing towards his car, suddenly looking dirtier and rustier than he remembered.

Tate thanked him as he opened her door for her and waited for her to get in. '_Let the small-talk_ _begin_', he thought as he went around to the driver's side. He buckled up, started up the car and pulled away from the kerb. "So, you're an author?" They had to start somewhere, right?

"That's debatable… I'm definitely a _writer_, but I think you can only really be considered an author when your book is actually being sold. And my first novel doesn't hit the shelves until Wednesday."

Don turned to her with a questioning raised eyebrow. "How can you have a crazed fan stalking you when you haven't released anything?"

"It's 2013 – the internet is the best tool you have as an aspiring writer. To drum up hype, you release the first chapter on Facebook with a link to your website, you pay a bunch of people to 'like' the post or write about it on Twitter, then more people are exposed to it and before you know it you have people harassing you for more. Then you give them a release date for the book, schedule a bunch of signings, and wait for the money to roll in." She paused when she saw the look on his face, not sure whether it was admiration or disbelief, and continued, "My agent's actual words. She tells me it's the only way to make it these days. She never said anything about stalkers, though."

"Trust me, if you're in the public eye, there's bound to be someone out there who thinks that makes you public property. But don't worry about it, it'll get easier." He gave her a reassuring smile, hoping that he was right – she seemed nice enough, if a little naive.

"It'll get easier because no one will be following me or writing me creepy letters, or it'll be easier because I'll get used to it?"

Don didn't answer, keeping his eyes on the road ahead and watching out for her hotel. "What kind of things does he write?"

Tate thought for a moment, thinking back to the last letter she had received. "Mostly just how he wants to meet me and that he hopes we can hang out. Like he thinks we'll have so much in common. It's nothing particularly threatening – he's never told me he wants to kill me and eat my brain or anything – I just get the feeling that it could escalate to that, you know? There's a dark undertone to his letters that freaks me out."

"Have you ever seen him?"

"No," she replied hesitantly; Don could tell she felt embarrassed that she was overreacting. "But I was on The View a couple of weeks ago, and when I got back to my dressing room there was a huge vase of roses in there – none of the security guards knew anything about them being dropped off."

"He was in there?"

"Yeah. And someone had rifled through my bag; they didn't take anything, but I could tell someone had done it."

"Tate, I don't want you to take this the wrong way, but why aren't the cops dealing with this? They could get prints off the vase or your bag and arrest the guy. He's just going to keep bothering you if you don't do something about it."

She looked uncomfortable for a moment, and Don thought she wasn't going to respond. Then she turned to him, not quite meeting his gaze. "My agent… She wants me to be successful; she means well really. She just doesn't want me to have any bad publicity – when I got the first letter, she told me that the tabloids have a way of spinning things that make the public feel sympathy for people like this guy. She doesn't want them to portray me as a person who doesn't appreciate my fans."

"Well, she sounds like a peach," Don began, eliciting a laugh from Tate. "But maybe you should consider what I said."

"He's probably just a misguided, lonely guy who enjoys psychological thrillers. I don't want to ruin his life by having him arrested. But I promise, if he shows up here and tries anything, then we'll call the cops."

Pulling up outside the Ritz-Carlton and turning off the ignition, he replied, "Klein neglected to mention the fact that I'm a cop, didn't he?"

"Yes, he sure did. Why wouldn't he tell me something like that – it's kind of a big selling point. Not that you're selling yourself… Shut up, Tate," she rambled, eventually cutting herself off my slapping her palm to her forehead. "Let's try that again; no, he did not tell me you're a cop, Mr Flack. How interesting, please, tell me more."

"Nicely saved. And it's _Detective_ Flack. But I'll let you call me Don."

"Detective, huh? Impressive," she laughed. "And how gracious of you, Don."

They got out of the car and walked into the hotel through the imposing revolving door. Tate went up to the front desk to check-in, and Don hung back to wait for her. He'd never been inside this hotel before – he didn't suppose murders happened here all that often. Even if they did, there was probably a man employed only for the purpose of covering up guest's indiscretions.

Tate joined him again before he gave too much thought to that particular conspiracy theory, walking up to him whilst twirling her room key on her index finger.

"Let me show you to my room, detective."


	4. Chapter 4

The next week and a half passed relatively trouble-free. Don managed to escort Tate to the Russian Tea Room in a manner that was acceptable to Josh on Monday afternoon. Then on Tuesday, Tate had a round of telephone interviews to complete, which she did in the relative safety of her suite's bedroom while Don watched TV in the living room, before an afternoon press conference held in the hotel's business centre. After dinner in the restaurant that evening with Tate and Josh (generously paid for by Tate's agent), Don walked them both up to their adjoining rooms, made sure they were inside safely, then went home to his depressing-by-comparison apartment. He was just glad to be home without having encountered Tate's stalker – that fact that he had been a no-show so far was definitely making his job easier. The rest of the week progressed in much the same way – drive around for a few hours, eat, drive some more or stand around while Tate was interviewed (on Wednesday it was for NBC, on the following Monday it was for the Rachael Ray Show), maybe eat again depending on the time, go back to the hotel, then drive some more; his days usually ended with the eleven o'clock news, a beer and then bed.

By the time he arrived back at the hotel the following Wednesday, he was surprised to see a small group of photographers congregating in the lobby, obviously waiting for something. As he rode up to the 32nd floor, he realised who they were waiting for – none other than Tate Ellis. Today was the day her book was released, which was why he was there – to take her to the first, and most likely the biggest, signing at a nearby Barnes and Noble.

Don had a keycard to Tate's suite, but he didn't like to just go in unannounced, so when he stepped off the elevator and got to her door, he knocked and waited for her to come and open it. When she hadn't answered after thirty seconds, he knocked again, his mind quickly switching to cop-mode. This time she answered, looking flustered and still in her bathrobe, before her eyes widened when she saw that he was preparing to unholster the gun at his hip.

"Sorry, it's been kind of a manic morning. Come on in," she said, stepping aside for him and shutting the door. "I'll be ready in, like, five minutes."

As she hurried off into the bedroom, Don sat down on one of the couches. "Everything alright?" he called after her.

"Just freaking out a little bit!" she replied in a higher pitch than usual, and he could hear the tension in her voice.

"She's worried no one's going to like the book," Josh added as he bustled through the door to his room. "Which is crazy," he added a little louder so she could hear him. "You need me to zip you up?"

Tate grunted in the affirmative, and Josh waltzed in to help her. They both came out of the bedroom seconds later, Josh looking excited and Tate looking like she was about to throw up. "Tell me honestly, do I look like a serious author or someone who's trying to look like a serious author?" She gave a half-hearted twirl, demonstrating that her casual knit dress fit in all the right places.

"Would you relax? You look great, right, Mr Flack?"

"Great," Don agreed, hoping they couldn't tell in his voice that his throat had suddenly gone dry.

* * *

Don appreciated a good book as much as the next guy, but this was not something that he would ever understand – as he stood behind Tate's chair, pulled up to a table, beside which was a large cardboard cut-out of the front cover of her book, at least one hundred people were forming a line that snaked around almost the whole of the lobby of the store. As much as he liked Tate, he wasn't really sure why anyone would wait in line to get her name scrawled on the inside cover of a book they had just paid a premium for because it had only been released hours before.

That disdain firmly ingrained in his mind, he scanned the crowd for anyone who looked a little _too _excited to be there. The line was mostly made up of middle-aged women and college-aged kids looking to make a quick buck by putting a signed copy of the most hotly-anticipated book of the year on eBay – no one to be too worried about. He saw Josh hurrying in, laden down with a Styrofoam tray holding three Starbucks cups, and a large paper bag.

"Sorry I took so long," he said apologetically to Tate and Don, handing them their coffees. "I read in Time Out New York about this sushi place a couple of blocks away, but never have I seen such a long line that wasn't for shoes!" Seeing their identical looks at the mention of the word 'sushi', he reached into the paper bag and pulled out deli sandwiches for his less cultured companions. "Relax, you two." He motioned for Tate to stand, ushering her towards the staff's break room and stuffing napkins in her hand in one smooth movement, and turned to address the crowd. "Ms Ellis is going to take a short break; she will return to sign books for the rest of you in fifteen minutes."

* * *

When the last customer had their book signed and Tate's crazed fan still hadn't made an appearance, she and Josh got in the back of Don's car to go back to the hotel. Talk naturally turned to the fact that Tate had effectively been stood up by her own stalker.

"Maybe he's a long-distance kind of stalker, or the kind that has a fear of flying..." Josh proposed, sounding almost disappointed that he hadn't witnessed any drama.

"Or he saw the line and decided I wasn't worth the wait?"

"If he can face going backstage at The View, and risk running into those clucking hens they call hosts, he can fly across the country and wait for a few hours to actually _meet_ you."

"I don't even know what I would have done if he had come – do I act like it's the most normal thing on earth to be obsessed with someone, or do I flat out tell him he's a psycho?" she asked, catching Don's eye in the rear-view mirror.

"You thank him for coming out to see you, then you call me over so I can kick his ass," he replied with a little more enthusiasm than he had intended.

"Where can I get me one of those?" he heard Josh mutter to Tate with a wink. "It's nice to see someone who's so… _passionate_… about their work, Mr Flack."

Don rolled his eyes, glad to see they were almost back at the hotel. "It's what I'm paid for."

* * *

Once they were parked up and on their way through the doors, Josh announced that he was going to stop by the bar for a drink. "To celebrate launch day, and making it through alive. You're more than welcome to join me, Mr Flack."

"I'd better escort Tate to her suite. Maybe next time." He hurried across the lobby to the elevators, closely followed by the weary writer. And he hoped he was wrong, but he was sure he heard Josh's shrill voice call 'behave' after them.

"He'll hold you to that, you know," she said with a smile. "He's got a thing for tough guys."

"Well I'm flattered, but he's not exactly my type."

"He has a little too much Y-chromosome for your liking?"

Don laughed. "Just a little."

They stepped into the elevator and rode up to her floor in a comfortable silence. When they reached her door, she unlocked it and allowed him to go in first to do a sweep of the rooms before she went in – he had done so each time he had dropped her off this week, but tonight as he stepped over the threshold, something immediately struck him as being off. The room seemed brighter; Don realised that the light had been left on in the living area. It hadn't been on that morning when they had left – the sun was out and beaming right in through the window, so they had no need for the light to be on.

"Wait here," he instructed her, reaching for his gun for the second time that day.

* * *

**A/N Thanks to sassbox for being a loyal reviewer, and a total sweetheart!**


	5. Chapter 5

Don slowly pushed the door open further, and then stepped into the room, his gun leading the way. He looked left first, towards the wall where the adjoining door to Josh's room was, then turned right towards the rest of the living area of Tate's suite. He didn't see anyone or anything out of place in there, so he continued through to the bathroom, pushing open the door and quickly assessing the small space. When he was satisfied that that room was also clear, he headed towards the bedroom – the double doors were slightly ajar, and Don steeled himself for who he might find in there.

He peered through the small gap between the doors, not able to see much but not observing any signs of movement inside. The room was dimly lit by the setting sun over Central Park, casting an orange glow over the neutrally-decorated walls. He pushed the doors open a little more with the barrel of his gun, slipping inside. Nothing, once more. He pulled the curtains away from the wall and checked the closets for good measure, but he found nothing out of place. The maid must have left the light on and the bedroom doors open when she had been in earlier.

He went back out in the hall. "It's all clear," he told Tate, allowing her inside. He gestured to the light that was on overhead. "The maid must have been in."

Tate seemed satisfied with his theory, and went to hang her jacket up on the hooks outside the bedroom. She stopped with her arms outstretched, her jacket hanging from her fingers. "Do you smell that?"

He walked over to where she was standing and sniffed noisily. "Yeah; it's just the roses in your bedroom."

"What roses?" she asked with fearful eyes.

The two of them went into the bedroom, and Tate saw the big vase of red roses that Don had seen earlier. He had just assumed that she knew they were there – after all, he'd never been in that part of her suite, so he'd never seen them before. She picked out the card from among the arrangement and flipped it over to read what it said: '_Sorry I missed you_.'

"He knows I'm staying here? Oh, god…"

"You sure they're from him? They could be from your agent, or…"

"Why wouldn't they sign the card? It has to be him!"

Don had to admit, she was right. Since he was still in cop-mode from clearing the room, his mind immediately told him what he should do next. "Look, I'll go and find security and see if they've got surveillance tapes."

"Do you think he was actually here? In my room?"

"Probably not. But if the roses are from a florist, hopefully the delivery guy was wearing a uniform or signed in somewhere. Then we can get credit card receipts from the store and find out who this guy is."

"We?"

"Tate, he was here in the city – you said if he showed up you'd get the police involved."

"I know," she sighed. "My agent's gonna freak out…"

"While I'm tracking down security, you stay here and call her; if she wants to keep this quiet, she'll find a way." He paused, trying to think of any other way to keep the PR damage to a minimum. "I've got a friend at the Crime Lab who owes me a favour – I'll call him. I guess one CSI working in here is better than having the lobby swarming with cops, right?"

Tate sighed with relief, grateful to be spared from a dressing-down from her agent. "Thank you."

* * *

"So this is your 'vacation', huh?" Danny asked as he met Don in the lobby of the hotel. "I told you I'd loan you money if you needed it."

"I know. But you've got Lucy to think about, I wouldn't feel right taking money from you. Besides, this job ain't so bad; it _definitely_ beats chasing down perps all day."

"You're telling me," Danny replied, looking around at the glittering chandeliers above them and marble floors under their feet. He could see why his friend thought this was better than working a scene in a puke-covered alley. "Where to?"

"The surveillance room on the fifth floor. The guy I spoke to said you can watch the tapes up there. Then try and pin down which florist the delivery guy works for, and check their orders."

"And are you expecting me to do all that tonight, Kevin Costner? No one's gonna be at the florist."

Don rubbed his temples and sighed. "You're right. Will you be able to get through the tapes tonight?"

"C'mon, this is me you're talking to. I'll get through 'em and get you the florist. If I'm not called out tomorrow morning, I'll get credit card receipts and find you your guy, alright?"

"Thanks, man."

"No problem. I'll call you when I get something."

* * *

It was around ten o'clock when Danny finally called; Tate had hung up with her agent eventually, after receiving what had sounded like a firm talking-to. 'Helen's genius advice is to go downstairs and have dinner, charge it to the room and then go about our lives like nothing happened,' she had informed Don, clearly irked that no one else was taking this seriously. They had done as they were told though, collecting an inebriated Josh from the bar on the way back up to their floor, and had just got back to Tate's room when Don's phone began to ring.

"_Flack, it's Danny. I gotta take off, Lindsey wants me home and she tells me I've gotta pick up diapers on the way. I didn't find any delivery guys on the tape, so I used the initiative that means I get paid more than you, and I took a look at the hotel's dumpsters – I found a cellophane flower wrapper from Flowers on the Park on the West Side."_

"Good work, Dan."

"_Mac owes me, so I'll stop by there tomorrow morning, OK?"_

"You didn't tell him about this, did you?"

"_So he can kick your ass for moonlighting without at least informing him first? Give me some credit…"_

"Sorry. I really appreciate this, buddy."

"_Not a problem."_ He hung up and put his phone back into his inside jacket pocket, turning back to Tate to find her looking at him expectantly.

"Well?"

"We've got a lead. But it's late, and we won't be able to do any more tonight."

She groaned, suddenly feeling sick – he was still out there, he still knew where she was, and he was still free to come after her tonight. Her agent had already told her not to draw attention to the 'situation', as she had called it, by checking in to a different hotel. She had no friends in the city, and nowhere else to go. "So… what? Barricade the door and hope for the best?"

Don wasn't sure what to tell her – there wasn't really anything they could do. "Do you want me to stay?"

"No," she sighed. "I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

He saw a flicker of hesitation in her eyes, before she responded, "Yes. Really, I'll be OK. Josh is next door…"

"Josh is tanked. I'll be surprised if her even knows where _he_ is, let alone where you are." He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "That couch folds out, right?"

* * *

Don, being the man's man that he was, had never been to a sleepover before in his life, but this was how he imagined it to be. He and Tate had ordered Chinese take-out, and had set it up on the coffee table in the living area of her suite, before unfolding the sofa and settling down to eat. The only thing that seemed to be missing was the girly face masks. They had attempted to watch a movie, but mostly talked through the whole thing, getting to know each other better outside the parameters of author and bodyguard. They talked about nothing for the most part, discussing hobbies (any kind of sport for him, the Food Network for her) and – a burning question on Flack's part – whether Tate was in fact her real name ('_My full name makes me sound like a low-budget pornstar, OK?_' was all that she had said on the topic, apart from the fact that that was all she would _ever_ say).

Tate still seemed uneasy about the fact that her stalker had been in her bedroom, and, if he was honest, Don was glad he had stayed – if he'd gone home and left her, he would have been worried about her all night.

As they cleared their empty noodle containers some time later, talk turned from general conversation to a question Tate had wanted to ask since Don revealed that he was a police officer. She had been trying to work it out as they got to know each other better from spending entire days together, but she hadn't come any closer to drawing a conclusion. Sometimes she wondered if she really wanted to know – or if he would even feel like sharing.

"So…" she began, innocently testing the waters. "If you've got a perfectly good job as a cop, why are you moonlighting as a 'protection officer'?"

"Honestly?" he asked, feeling embarrassed. The image of his father flashed before his eyes again. "I lost all my money in a poker game…"

Tate laughed, shaking her head. "I would have thought, as a detective, you'd have an impeccable poker face."

"I was having an off night, alright?"

"Were we maybe a little bit hammered, too?"

"Maybe…"

Tate laughed again. "Oh dear. I'll bet your girlfriend kicked your ass when you got home."

"Nah, I live alone. The bachelor lifestyle, y'know?"

"I bet you think of yourself as a regular Hugh Heffner, don't you?"

"Well, I don't like to brag…" Don replied, puffing his chest out in jest. "Cause I don't really have much to brag about – I go to bed alone too often for my liking."

"Uh-huh! Somehow I don't believe that."

"I don't know, I guess I just don't really have the time for anything like that. My job is pretty much the only thing I can commit to right now."

"You don't date women from work, then? I mean, they'd get it right – that the job comes first?"

He paused, knowing where this conversation was heading. He really didn't want to go there, so he picked his words carefully. "I used to date a cop. I wouldn't do it again."

"That's all you're going to say? You tease!"

"It ended badly. That's not something I want to go through again."

She gave him a questioning look over her fork, wondering why he was being so evasive. "Did she cheat on you or something?"

"She died."

Tate was silent, not knowing how to respond. Don saw different emotions cross her face – ranging from embarrassment, to pity, to confusion, to guilt. "Well… Crap," she muttered eventually, not able to look him in the eye.

He took put another forkful of rice into his mouth, hoping he hadn't made her feel bad. "Yeah… That reaction is pretty much why I don't like to bring it up."

"I'm sorry… I guess I kinda forced you into telling me, huh?"

"No. I could have just said I didn't want to talk about it. Or I could have lied."

"I really am sorry," she said again, feeling terrible. "Do… Do you want to talk about it? I mean, about _her_?"

Don thought for a minute – he never talked about Jess out loud to anyone. For a long time, he didn't even want to speak her name, let alone hear anyone else say it – they never seemed to say it right; not the way he felt it should be said. He couldn't bear to hear his colleagues – his friends – talk about her, when they didn't even know her; not really. Not in the way that he knew her. Then when people just stopped talking about her like she had never existed and never died, Don didn't want to be the one to bring her up – it made people uncomfortable. It had been so long since he'd talked about her, or even really thought about her… Of course, she entered his mind every day, but in a fleeting, almost abstract way – the fact that she was dead never occurred to him, just the fact that she was someone he used to know. Now he thought of her fondly, as he would an ex-girlfriend that he'd parted with on good terms, rather than the one that got away in the cruellest way possible.

So did he want to talk about her? Don asked himself the question again, wondering if brushing the dust from the cover of that long-untouched book of his life would be good for him.

"Her name was Jessica," he began.

* * *

**A/N Be nice to me, please, I've had a rough week! Thank you so much for reading :)**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N Yes, I am aware that I'm a total tease...**

* * *

Josh burst in through the door adjoining Tate's room to his, calling out as he made his entrance. "Tate! Tate, wake up! You are _not_ going guess…" He stopped dead in the middle of the living room his satin robe swinging around his ankles. "Mr Flack," he purred with a knowing smile. "You're here _early_ – or should that be late?"

"Mornin', Josh," Don replied wearily, running a hand through his hair as he sat up on the couch. This was not the way he had hoped to begin today. "You're up early after your heavy night…"

Josh nodded towards the open bedroom door. "Where is Tate?"

"Bathroom."

"Big night?"

"Not in the way you're thinking."

"Uh-huh," Josh smiled, crossing the room to tap on the bathroom door. "Tate, sweetie, don't keep us waiting _all_ day!"

She finally opened the door to him, patting her face with a towel. "What are you hollering about?"

"Oh, well I _had_ big news, but then I got here and saw the half-naked man – you can understand that I got a little distracted."

Tate sighed and shook her head. "First of all, he is not half naked. He is more clothed than you are. Second, what can you possibly have to tell me at…" She looked at her watch and grimaced. "Seven in the morning?"

"Well, it's nothing as _huge_ as this little development," Josh replied, gesturing between her and Don. "You're just number one on the New York Times Bestseller List…"

"_Shut up_!" Tate exclaimed. Josh produced a copy of the newspaper from the pocket of his robe and she snatched it from him. She scanned the page he had left it open on, barely able to believe the printed words were true. "Is this for real?"

"The realest. And it gets better – The Times will be throwing a party on Friday night, in _your_ honour! Now, go get dressed, we've got a lot of prepping to do."

"Prepping?"

"For the party?" Josh replied incredulously, as if Tate hadn't been listening to a word he had just said. "We have to go and pick out a dress for you, and something cute for me. And then get your hair done, your nails, maybe a spray tan?"

"No spray tan!"

"Tate, this could well be the most important event of your career – nay, your life! Everyone is going to be at this party!"

Don and Tate exchanged a worried look, knowing that could only mean one thing – not just everyone, but _anyone_ could be at the party.

"Have I missed something?" Josh asked, detecting the sudden tension in the room.

* * *

After filling Josh in on what he had missed last night during his drunken escapades, Tate was whisked away by her hung-over assistant to begin preparations for the party. Their first stop was at a boutique on Fifth Avenue to find a suitable dress.

As she tried on the seventh garish creation that the sales assistant had plucked from the rails, Tate sighed and rolled her eyes at Josh in the mirror. "Can't we just go to Bloomingdales or something? These dresses aren't really my style," she said, fiddling with the fuchsia satin that seemed to cling to her body in all the wrong places.

"Honey, I know normally you'd rather chew your own arm off than go shopping, but this occasion calls from something a little more… Extravagant, y'know? "

"I'd rather just go for something a little more subtle and classy. Or I could just not go to this party at all…"

Josh took her by the hands and turned her to face him. "Don't tell me you've been listening to Detective Boxer-Shorts! Tate, you have nothing to worry about – I seriously doubt this whack job will show up, let alone try anything. He probably just wants an autograph and a picture."

"He knows where I'm staying! He knows my _room number_! And you're telling me I shouldn't be worried?"

"Look, in a few days we'll be out of here, and soon enough all the media stuff will die down. He'll lose interest pretty quickly then, you'll see."

Tate shook her head and went to unzip herself from the monstrosity of a dress she had been forced into wearing, unable to understand why only she and Don were taking this seriously.

Don sat out in his car, illegally parked outside the boutique on Fifth Avenue. As the clock on the dashboard ticked agonisingly slowly towards two o'clock, he wondered if he should go in and check on Tate and Josh once more. He had already been in twice, as well as keeping one eye on the front window of the store where he could see Josh rushing about, reluctantly followed by Tate. As he impatiently drummed his fingers on his thigh, he realised he hadn't heard back from Danny yet today; now would be as good a time as any to call him and see what he knew.

Retrieving his phone from the centre console between the two front seats, he scrolled to his friend's number and hit call, holding the gadget against his ear until the call was picked up.

"_Messer."_

"Whatcha got for me, Danno?"

"_Would you like the good news, the bad news, or the really bad news first?"_

Don sighed. "There's bad news?"

"_You better believe it, buddy. Do you have any idea how long Flowers on the Park has been in business?"_

"What's that got to do with their credit card receipts?"

"_I'm getting there. Fifty-four years is the answer; they don't even take credit cards."_

"That's just great!" Don replied, pounding his fist on the steering wheel.

"_Well, the good news was that she said I can have the stack of purchases she's had on the counter for the past week. It's better than nothing, right?"_

"And by the time you get through them all, Tate will have gone back to Boston and her stalker will be right behind her." He ran a hand through his hair, trying to mentally work out how many receipts Danny could theoretically work through before Sunday. "Wait a minute – was that the bad news or the really bad news?"

"_It gets worse, Flack. Someone spilled the beans to Mac, and he wants to see you." _

* * *

**A/N2 See, total tease! Sorry this is such a short chapter - my PC is telling me that it is 200 words longer than FF is showing, so I'm not sure what's gone wrong there! Also, thanks to all who have taken the time to review, it really does mean a great deal to me.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N This is an important chapter, people! I hope you like the direction this story takes - my aim is to please everyone!**

* * *

As Don walked through the halls of the Crime Lab for the first time in almost two weeks, he flashed back to his high school days, being summoned to the principal's office – something that had happened more times than he'd be willing to admit, and certainly more times than his parents ever realised. He knew Mac wanted to see him, and hoped it was just to tell him that he disapproved of how he was spending his vacation time.

Unfortunately, it was the day of Tate's party, and since she and Josh had some last minute errands to run before locking themselves away in her suite to get ready, he had no choice but to fit in this visit to his boss in between picking up her dress and getting her nails done. Josh had chosen to stay in the car and make some business calls, but Tate wanted to see the Crime Lab. "This whole 'stalker' experience has given me some ideas for my next book," she said, as she walked alongside him.

"Just wait here, alright." He ushered her into the break room and saw Danny on his way in with a newspaper. "Keep an eye on her, Messer."

"I thought that's what they paid _you_ for?"

"Just… I'll be five minutes." He gave up his attempt to reason with him and stalked off to Mac's office, knocking lightly on the glass door and letting himself in before the older man had even had chance to look up from his computer.

"So you're still in the city, then?"

"Yeah, look, I'm kind of busy so if we could make this quick…"

"You're out of vacation time."

"Alright," he replied measuredly, trying to think of a plan, and fast. He eyed Mac suspiciously, and proceeded slowly. "But, y'know, I think I might be coming down with something…"

The older man shook his head in disbelief. "Don, you must be, because you're not thinking this through; you're willing to take an unpaid sick day to go to a job that pays less than this one."

Mac was right – he really was being stupid. But he couldn't just ditch Tate. Klein still thought she wasn't worth protecting, so if he quit on her and went back to work, anything could happen – and it would be his fault. He had a responsibility to protect and serve, so what choice did he have?

He sighed and willed Mac to understand. "I really don't feel great. I'll go home, get some rest, and be back tomorrow morning."

Without waiting for Mac to say anything – either tell him that he'd be in work later if he wanted to keep his job, or tell him to do what he had to do – Don left the office and went back to the break room to collect Tate.

"Everything alright?" she asked when she saw his furrowed brow and pursed lips.

"Yeah, just forgot to sign off on my timesheet from last week. Shall we go?"

* * *

Back in Tate's suite, Don sat twiddling his thumbs as he waited for her to finally be ready to leave for the New York Times party. He idly fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and looked down at the illuminated screen to see that he had one missed call and one new voicemail message – someone must have just called. He held the phone to his ear to retrieve the message.

"_Look, buddy, I know you're 'sick', but we need you here – we've got a triple in Times Square, and we need all the manpower we've got to keep the tourists out of the blood pools. So lock Jane Austin in her hotel room and get your ass down here." _

Don pressed 'end' on his phone and sighed. What was he going to do now? Tate was getting ready right now, the limo was on its way, and everyone was waiting for her. She couldn't very well miss a party in her honour. But he couldn't just not show up to the scene of a homicide – that was his _real _job, after all. Before he had chance to think about it further, the bedroom door opened and Tate came out.

"Wow", he breathed unintentionally, hoping she hadn't heard. Her smirk told him she had.

"I take it you like what you see, Detective," she laughed, twirling to give him a full view of her floor- length midnight blue gown.

"Um… Yes," he replied, trying to remember the last time he'd felt himself blushing. "But we have a problem."

He saw her face fall and tried to think of how he could break the news to her. He debated lying, telling her that he'd received some intel that her stalker would be at the party, but he realised that would just worry her needlessly. "I have to go back to work."

"Right now?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Alright." She thought for a moment, her hand to her mouth. "Well, what are the chances of me be murdered at such a public party?"

"Tate, no."

"I know what you're going to say; but you could just come with Josh and me in the limo, walk us in, then go to work. Josh thinks we're overreacting as it is, and he's been in this industry longer than I have. I'm sure we'll be fine!"

"No way – you're staying here."

"But it's a party for _me_! Do you know how people are going to react if I don't at least show up for a little while? And by people, you know who I mean…" She pleaded with him using her eyes, and was almost convinced he was going to agree. Just to be sure she was going to get her way, she added, "Besides, if I don't go, then it'd be a total waste of this dress…" When she says his eyes go straight for a place that was _definitely_ below her face, she was sure she'd won him over.

Don sighed in defeat. "OK, fine. But call me if you even suspect he's there watching you, alright?"

"I promise; as soon as the hairs on the back of my neck stick up, you'll know about it."

* * *

Having only ever been inside a limo with dead bodies, Don had always imagined riding in one for real would be exciting and glamorous. The reality, however, was kind of a comedown; he was too busy worrying about the fact that he was meant to be in two places at once, and that, as a result, his mind wasn't focused on either. The whole while he was with Tate and Josh on the way to the Plaza, he was thinking about how, if something went down at the crime scene he was currently late to, he'd be responsible. And now, finally at the Times Square crime scene, all he could think was that Tate could be in danger; again, he'd be responsible if anything happened to her.

As he ducked under the yellow tape, he saw Mac and Stella look in his direction, but he tried to pretend he hadn't seen their disapproving faces and headed straight for Danny, ready to be caught up on what exactly had happened.

"Glad to see you made it," his friend said good-naturedly, stepping over a blood pool towards him. He filled Don in on all the details – or the few details that they knew, at least – and, seeing the uniformed officers struggling, the two of them went into crowd control mode, confident that Mac, Stella, Lindsey and Hawkes could handle the processing for now.

"Thanks for having my back, Dan; I think I got in a little over my head with this protection gig." It pained him to say it, but it was true – now he understood why Klein was reluctant to give him a 'real' assignment.

"No problem. And I'm sorry I haven't got through those receipts. Some people just have no concept of organisation, y'know?"

"Don't worry about it. Tate's leaving tomorrow afternoon, anyway. If we need to, we'll let Boston PD handle it, I'm sure they've got time to sort through 'em."

Danny laughed, aware that there was a fierce rivalry between the two cities that went beyond just baseball. "Tough break, though, with the prints, huh?"

Don eyed him inquisitively. "Prints?"

"Yeah, didn't you get Adam's message?" Seeing Don shake his head, he continued. "The only prints we found on the vase from Tate's bedroom were the assistant, Josh's. But she probably showed him, so they're unrelated to the case."

"Josh was in the bar all night, I walked him back up myself…"

"I printed the vase as soon as I got up there, so how did his prints get on it?"

Don thought back to the day of the signing, trying to remember if there was a time the three of them weren't all together; after all, that was the day he had thought the stalker was most likely to crawl out of the woodwork. They had all left the hotel together that morning, and Tate would have seen the flowers if they had been there. Then they drove to Barnes and Noble, and were there the whole day. Well, two of them had been there all day; Josh went out to collect lunch. "Oh shit."

"You've got that look on your face, Flack, the one that says you're gonna bail and leave me to explain to Mac." Don was already stooping to go under the crime scene tape again, so he yelled after him, "Again!"

* * *

**A/N2 So... Things (finally?) get exciting! Thank you so much for reading :)**


	8. Chapter 8

Tate lowered her martini glass from her mouth, surveying the crowd that had quickly accumulated in the ballroom of the Plaza hotel. She felt hugely uncomfortable knowing that they were all there for her. The vast majority of the people who had gathered to celebrate her novel's success were all literary types, and she felt like a complete fraud talking to them. She could almost hear their internal monologues as they made small talk, realising that she had no idea about what they referred to as 'their craft'; she simply wrote what she felt like. As she gulped down what remained in her glass, she noticed a familiar figure coming towards her from across the room. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you think?" Don replied. He thought about how he would tell her that her best friend was also her stalker, but realised it would probably be better to talk to Josh first; after all, part of him hoped there would be another explanation for hit prints on the vase.

Tate scowled at him and shook her head. "And they let you in here dressed like that?"

"I told the doorman I'd left my tux on my private jet. Then I showed him my badge…"

"Well, you'll be glad to know I haven't encountered any crazies yet. Just Josh, but that's his natural state – this kind of soirée is what he lives for."

"Yeah, speaking of Josh – do you know where he is?"

Tate looked around in the direction of where she had last seen him. "He was over there schmoozing, but I don't see him now. Why?"

"I just wanted to have a word with him. Maybe he's in the bathroom?"

"Yeah, they're over that way by the coat check desk."

"Alright, I'll be back in a minute; try and stay out of trouble."

"Very funny…"

* * *

Don crossed the crowded ballroom and, as he passed the coat check desk, casually looked in that direction. He found the man he was looking for, but he himself had apparently not been noticed yet. He continued closer to Josh, studying the other man's movements; he was holding a woman's clutch bag, one that looked similar to the one Tate had left the hotel room with.

"Whatcha got there, Josh?"

He jumped as he was interrupted, his eyes widening as he saw who had joined him. "Oh, this? Uh… nothing, it's nothing."

"Mind if I take a look?"

"Well, you see, I was just grabbing Tate's cell phone out of her purse, and I found this in here…" he replied, reluctantly handing the letter over when Don's glare became too much for him to take.

"Is that so?" He could swear Josh visibly withered as he tore open the envelope and glanced at its contents. "A letter from her stalker."

Josh couldn't do anything but drip sweat on his Armani suit as it dawned on him that there was no way out of the situation he found himself in. "It's not what it looks like, Mr Flack."

"Do you think I'm stupid? I saw you putting this in here…"

"I was putting it _back_!"

"…And I know it was you who put the flowers in Tate's room. Have you never seen one of those crappy cop shows on TV? You left your prints, you moron! And that sushi place you took so long at that day, the one you read about in Time Out New York? The health department shut it down two months ago; that copy of the magazine in your room is from last November."

Josh reddened, visibly horrified by the fact that he had pretended to be somewhere that was quite literally _so_ last year. "I'm not saying another word until my I call my lawyer."

"Good; that's your right." Don took his handcuffs from his belt and fastened them on Josh's wrists as he recited the Miranda rights to him. As he led him towards the hotel lobby to take him out to the car, Tate rushed over and stopped them both.

"What the hell is going on here?" she asked, frantically looking between the two men.

"Josh is the stalker – he was the one who wrote the letters and had the flowers delivered."

"What?" She gasped, staring in disbelief at the man she had called her friend for years. "Is it true, Josh?"

"Honey, I need you to trust me, alright? Call Helen and she'll sort everything out."

* * *

Whenever Josh had a cop fantasy, it usually ended when he woke up, and it_ almost_ never looked like this – a sterile yet at the same time slightly dirty interview room, with harsh fluorescent tube lighting casting a horrid glow over his naturally pale (_'Cosmo calls it alabaster'_) skin tone. He had been escorted into the room and unceremoniously dumped into a cold steel chair, and now as he waited for someone to come back and deal with him, he wondered how he had ended up in this position; with his sunny disposition and love of all things celebrity, working as a PA seemed like the obvious thing for him to do with himself once he'd graduated from college. He'd gone to work for Helen, who subsequently introduced him to his future best friend – Tate. Everything he'd done that had led to him to being arrested, he'd done for her.

He was interrupted out of his reverie by Detective Surly, as he had mentally begun referring to Don, accompanied by a woman with the curls of Elizabeth Berkley circa _Saved by the Bell_.

"Josh," Flack began, pulling out his chair and sitting down heavily, "This is Detective Bonasera. She's got a little something to show you."

He laced his fingers together behind his neck and cracked his knuckles; Josh winced in disgust. "I believe I asked for a lawyer."

"Traffic's pretty bad on the FDR tonight," the female detective replied, turning to her colleague. "There was a four-car pile-up earlier, right, Flack?"

"I heard it was five," he replied, settling easily into his and Stella's normal interregation routine; talk about any old subject – traffic, the weather, the results of last night's Knicks game – to lull the suspect into a false sense of security, then pummel them with an avalanche of evidence. Now it was Stella's turn…

"You are a very organised man, Josh. When we took your personal effects, we found this to-do list in your tux pocket." She slid a page from his notebook, neatly preserved as evidence in a plastic wallet, towards him across the table. "And here's the thing; your handwriting matches this note perfectly." This time she slid the latest stalker letter towards him, once again packaged in plastic.

Before giving Josh a chance to even process what Stella had just said, Don started up again. "You know, it would be very easy for us to take you to central booking right now; by the time your lawyer gets the message from Helen and comes _here_, you'll be half way to Riker's. Then he'll have to get an appointment to see you, and that could take, what, six months, Stel?"

Stella inhaled sharply and gave Josh a pitying look. "Eight, easy."

"Eight?!" Don repeated back in mock surprise.

"At least," Stella shot right back.

"Josh, let me tell you this straight up – _you_ will not do well in prison. So do yourself a favour and tell us what happened."

"It was all Helen's idea!" Josh blurted out, wide-eyed and obviously sweating. "She did it for publicity for Tate's book."

"So there's no stalker? It's been you all this time?"

"No! No, I swear to you, Detective Flack, I only wrote _that_ letter." He vigorously jabbed a finger at the letter on the table.

"Fingerprint and document analysis on the other letters will prove that," Stella said, collecting the evidence from the table and getting up from her chair. "Until then, you can wait for your lawyer in a cell."

* * *

Don had radioed for a squad car to come and take Josh to central booking, and as he waited outside with a much longed-for cigarette, he finally had chance to think through the events that had unfolded over the course of the evening. The reason why Josh had written the letters was obvious – publicity for Tate's book. There was little doubt that he had acted alone; Tate's agent, Helen, was obviously pulling the strings. With that in mind, Don wondered if he had been the _only_ person kept in the dark during all this…

A well-dressed man, whom he recognised as a powerful lawyer he had been cross examined by in court a few times, strode towards the precint and in the direction of where Don was standing. His look of steely determination, directed entirely at Don, gave the detective cause to presume he would be providing counsel for Josh, and had taken a call from Helen whilst at the opera, judging by his get-up.

"I guess a high-paying client is a good incentive to ditch the chauffeur and take the subway, huh?" Don muttered.

"It's Friday night, have you tried driving across Midtown in that kind of traffic? Besides, I don't intend to sit in a mile-long tailback when I can stop a miscarriage of justice and prevent an innocent man from spending a night in jail."

"What are you talking about?"

"No crime has been committed here, detective; as you know, stalking is not a crime in New York. And as it is, you have no evidence to suggest my client did any such thing." He nodded curtly and pushed past Don, then disappeared into the precinct.

* * *

**A/N Sorry this one's a little late! I'm at home having a Happy Easter with my family - I hope you all have the same!**


	9. Chapter 9

This was not the ending Tate had been expecting for this evening. She had assumed she would make small talk, maybe get a little tipsy, then go back to the hotel and try and find a way out of this troublesome dress – hell, a part of her had hoped that maybe a tall, dark and handsome detective would be providing able assistance. She had _maybe_, in the darkest recesses of her mind, considered the possibility that she might end up murdered tonight, providing her stalker had overcome his shyness and actually showed up. What she had not considered, however, was her best friend being arrested and accused of being said stalker.

Since Josh and her bodyguard had both bailed on her, Tate decided to leave the party early and went outside, hoping to hail a cab. In this dress, how hard could it be?

Before she had barely raised her arm in the characteristic New Yorker way (which she seemed to have picked up quickly), a familiar silver Honda pulled up alongside her.

"You need a ride back to the hotel?" Don asked.

"Your CSIs took my purse – and my keycard – as evidence."

"Since Josh isn't being charged, we can go pick it up. Come on," he said, opening the passenger door for her while she tried to navigate her long dress.

* * *

He led her through the parking lot and into the rear entrance of the precinct, directing her to one of the interrogation rooms – the same one Josh had been in, in fact. He hadn't said a word on the drive over; at first Tate thought it was because he knew she wouldn't want to talk about what had transpired that night – hell, she was still trying to work out how to process it, let alone coherently verbalise it – but when he turned and fixed her with a cold look, she realised that his silence had been for a different reason.

"Did you know?"

"What? Of course not! And I can't believe Josh would really do this." She held her head in her hands, trying to make sense of the whole evening – Flack showing up out of nowhere, Josh being carted away… And now she had the distinct feeling that she was being interrogated.

"You know, I always found it a little weird how concerned you were with what your PR people have to say about everything – all they care about is what looks good for you and what will sell more books. Is it so crazy for me to think they were pulling the strings for this, too? You had to have known! I mean, you write mystery novels, right? Hell, maybe you even masterminded this whole thing!"

"You sound like you've already made up your mind. I can't believe you think so little of me!"

"Come on, you said it yourself, hype and publicity are the only ways to make money these days. Never mind the people you screw over on the way, huh?" he replied, slamming her purse down on the table by way of punctuating his accusation.

"Are you insane?! You honestly think I'd waste your time and mine, and Lord knows how much money…"

"Oh, that's right," he interrupted. "Money is all it comes down to – I wouldn't worry about it, I'm sure you'll be raking it in when the tabloids hear all about your assistant betraying your trust. I wonder if they'd want to hear the other side of the story from an 'anonymous source'."

"Screw you. I don't have to listen to this crap," she replied, getting up to leave. "Trust is a two-way street, Don. I put my trust in you for the past two weeks, the least you can do is give me the same courtesy." She wiped at her eyes, snatched up her purse and stormed out the room, slamming the door behind her. Don watched until she left through the front entrance of the precinct, then loosened his tie, deciding he'd go and collect his wages from Klein before that slimy bastard had chance to think up a reason not to pay him for pissing off a client.

* * *

Don arrived at the lab the next afternoon, tail firmly planted between his legs, with the intention of going directly to Mac's office to apologise for taking off from the scene – what seemed like a good idea at the time had turned out to be a colossal waste. He'd rather have kept the wool over his eyes than find out he'd been played for two weeks.

He passed Danny, who was on his was out to a scene. After idly exchanging pleasantries and small-talking about the Rangers' score the previous night, the blonde detective steered the conversation towards another event that Don would have rather forgotten.

Don sighed in disapproval. "You know what, I wish I could arrest them all for wasting police time, but unfortunately that doesn't apply, even though I was still a cop through all this."

"So what now? Go back to work and pretend none of it ever happened?"

Don sighed once more, thinking it wouldn't be that easy. Truth was, he missed Tate. And he couldn't shake the image of her tearful face, protesting her innocence, from his mind. But then he remembered how she'd played him and thought bitterly about how, if her writing career didn't pan out, she could always make it as an actress. "Exactly. We go back to fighting real crimes, with real victims, and she can go on with her promotional circus. So, let's never speak of it again, right? To anyone," he added, wanting to avoid any further humiliation from their co-workers.

Danny eyed his friend suspiciously, sure his anger and resolve were masking something else. "Right," he replied, taking that as he cue to carry on out of the lab.

Don was interrupted on his way through the corridors by Lindsey. She came up to him with a look that made him certain that Danny had told the whole sorry story to his dearly beloved, and almost apologetically asked him how he was.

"Great!" he replied with a harsher tone than the purely sarcastic one he was going for. She gave him a look that implied she understood why he was being short with her. "Whatcha got there?" He nodded to the beige file she had tucked under her arm.

"Results from the testing on Tate's letters." She watched as Don grimaced at her name.

"Toss 'em. No crime was committed, so there's no need for any of it."

He began to walk away towards his intended location, but Lindsey called after him. "I think you should hear this…"

Don turned on his heels reluctantly; if he was just going to get confirmation of what he already knew to be true, then he'd rather just get on with grovelling to Mac, thank you very much. Sighing in exasperation, he motioned for Lindsey to continue what she was saying.

"Josh's prints were found on the letter he had in his possession at the party. Those same prints were also present on the other letters Tate received."

"So I was right, he _was _behind the whole thing."

Lindsey looked at him with unease, then proceeded slowly. "Maybe. Tate's prints were also on the letters, but she already said she and Josh had read all of them."

"And the postmark?"

"Boston."

"So Josh and Helen sent the letters from home. It still doesn't help us."

"Or maybe her stalker is from there…" Lindsey replied, trying to help.

"But you don't have a test for that, right?"

"Sorry."

"So we've got nothing?" Don clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to slam his fist into something – for a moment, he'd been certain Lindsey was trying to give him something they could use to prosecute Tate and her whole PR circus. He was hurt and angry, and dammit, he wanted someone to pay. It was bad enough that he found himself developing feelings for a woman he was supposed to be protecting, but to find out she was a fraud? He didn't know if he'd ever trust himself on the job again. And that was the worst part, because this job was all he had. He felt his anger growing and turned to leave, before Lindsey called out to him to stop yet again. Part of him wanted to just keep walking – keep on out of the lab and into the street – after all, it was her damn husband who got him into this mess in the first place. But the small part of him that was still relatively calm prevailed, forcing him to stop and face her again.

"I looked closer at the first letter Tate received. There was an unidentified set of prints on it – she swears that _no one_ else touched it but her and Josh. So I went back over all the letters. The same unidentified prints were on all of them, except the one you found on Josh."

"Someone else touched the letters," Don eventually managed to say, suddenly feeling like he had run a marathon – all the air had gone from his lungs and his legs felt like they were made of rubber.

"Yes – the person who wrote them."

"And he's still out there…"

* * *

**A/N I very nearly forgot to upload this chapter tonight; all day I've been convinced it's Tuesday, so I'm a little confused, obviously! Hope you all had a restful Easter, and once again, thank you so much for reading and reviewing!**


	10. Chapter 10

The day after the New York Times party, Tate was trying with all her might to put on a brave face for her – _thankfully_ – last public engagement of her trip to the city. All she had to do was get through today, and then she was going back to the hotel, collecting her luggage and taking the first flight back to Boston. She no longer cared what happened to her, or to Josh, who had himself already flown home without so much as a text, or to a certain surly detective-turned-bodyguard. All she wanted was to go home and never have to deal with any of this nonsense again; the very first thing she intended to do once back at her apartment, aside from downing the strongest drink she could find, was to inform Helen that her services would no longer be needed. If Tate was going to continue to write (and after this, she wasn't sure if she would) it would be on her own terms, without anyone looking over her shoulder the whole time.

But that was something that would have to wait. For today's soul-destroying event, which she was left to get to on her own, Tate was giving a reading in Williamsburg at a converted violin factory (now an upscale nightclub which held functions during the day); apparently her book was proving popular with the local hipster crowd.

She had just read the opening chapter to a group of mostly housewives and college-aged women, something which she hoped to never have to repeat; her voice didn't sound like her own, her writing suddenly sounded stupid and juvenile, and she kept looking out into the crowd hoping to see a familiar face. When none came into view, she fought to keep her mask from slipping once more.

Stepping aside from the podium, unconsciously smoothing out her clothes as she did so, the event's host thanked her. "And now let's open the floor up for questions, shall we?" she said, gesturing Tate forward again. She groaned inwardly, forcing a smile out into the eager-looking crowd.

Would this day never end?

* * *

After about half an hour or so of questions – mostly generic and, thankfully, nothing about anything that may have been in that morning's paper about her assistant – Tate was finally allowed to leave. She was just checking an app on her phone, not entirely sure where the nearest subway station might be, when a man in a grey suit approached her.

"Ms Ellis?" he asked, smoothing down his sandy-coloured hair absentmindedly.

"Yes?" she questioned in response; he certainly stood out amongst her crowd of fans, surely he wasn't one of them?

"Mr Klein's office sent me. As a replacement for Detective Flack."

Exhaling with relief that she wouldn't have to try and make her way back to Midtown on her own, she smiled up at her apparent saviour. "Oh! Thank you for coming at such short notice."

"My pleasure."

Tate obliged when he held out his hand to take her coat and bag from her, unable to help thinking about how his predecessor had never offered to help her with her bags. But then, she surmised, that role was always filled by Josh. Now she was here alone, but thankfully Helen had thought to call Klein. "Thanks again," she replied, happy to be led towards his car. She felt a sense of familiarity, like she had known him for a long time, even though she knew that wasn't the case; she assumed this was just the hallmark of a caring, dependable bodyguard; one whose_ sole_ job was to protect their clients.

After her things had been stowed in the car's trunk and she was comfortably settled on the back seat, Tate willed the long journey back to her hotel to go quickly; she could hardly wait to take a leisurely soak in her suite's oversized bathtub. After all, she needed something to help her unwind after the stress of the past few days…

* * *

As they passed over the Brooklyn Bridge, Tate caught her replacement bodyguard's eye in the rear-view mirror. He smiled at her; for a reason that was worryingly unknown to her, his smile made her uncomfortable. She cleared her throat noisily, hoping to clear that thought from her mind at the same time.

"You know, I never caught your name, Mister...?"

"I don't recall giving you my name," he replied, tightening his grip on the wheel.

Tate had hadn't been an author for long, but she'd written enough disturbing dialogue to know it when she heard it; this was definitely her cue to be scared.

* * *

As the Manhattan skyline drew closer, the skyscrapers seeming to loom over them as they grew in size, Tate wondered if she would survive jumping from the car. Given the speed they were going, she assumed not, but they would have to slow down eventually. That was, unless the doors were locked; if he saw her trying to make a break for it but failing, he'd undoubtedly kill her.

She had tried to ask him the obvious questions – 'who the hell are you?' was her opener – but he hadn't responded, just kept looking straight ahead. Instead, she tried to formulate any kind of plan that might get her out of this situation alive; he hadn't answered when she asked what he wanted, either, so for now her assumption was that he was her stalker and wanted her dead. That was what all stalkers wanted, right?

As her panicked mind tried to piece together every kidnapping-related episode of _Law and Order_ she had ever watched, she couldn't focus long enough to formulate anything better than her previous 'tuck-and-roll-and-hope-to-God-you-don't get-mowed-down-by-a-car-in-the-opposite-lane' plan. She took a deep breath, as quietly as she could without distracting him, and willed herself to think.

'_OK,_' her brain began, begging every cell in her body to _concentrate_, damn it. _'He put my bag and my jacket in the trunk, so even on the off-chance that there was an errant paperclip lying around back here, it's unlikely that I'd have anything else useful enough to MacGyver myself out of here.'_ She did a mental check of every pocket on the clothes she was wearing, thankful that today's engagement hadn't been anything more formal that smart-casual. _'I have a dollar. Seriously? I guess I could stab him with the underwire from my bra, but I doubt the kind of __manoeuvring that calls for would go unnoticed…'_ And then a thought occurred to her, so obvious that if she hadn't been desperately trying to blend in with the upholstery of the backseat, she would have face-palmed herself. _'Stalker-Joe over here might have__ taken all my bags, and probably thought he was some sort of criminal mastermind when he did, but he's clearly a rookie – he seems to have forgotten that I'm a 27-year-old woman and I always keep my cell phone as close to my hands as is humanly possible. S__o close I don't even realise it, apparently…'_

So now, the only thing standing between Tate and freedom was the sin of pride; no matter how much she tried, she had never found a pair of jeans that flattered her derriere as much as a well-cut pair of dark wash skinny jeans. She cursed the fact that those were the jeans she had chosen to wear today. Even if she could just reach into her pocket and pluck out her phone, she doubted she could do it without being noticed; she just wasn't that graceful. And in these jeans, she would have a serious tug of war situation on her hands.

It was now or never. She quickly glanced up to make sure his eyes were still firmly on the road. Confident that they were, she moved her hands swiftly from her lap to laying them crossed over across her stomach. She noticed his eyes flicker, but just as quickly as he had looked up, he was focused on the road again; he probably just thought she had a stomach ache (you know, possibly from being kidnapped? This guy clearly had no experience in 'napping people). Then, keeping the rest of her body as still as possible, she dropped her hands further down her hips, towards the seat, until she felt the characteristic shape of an iPhone in her left pocket, all the while silently thanking God or Allah or whoever that she hadn't been 'blessed' with her mother's hips. She worked the surface of her jeans, slowly and methodically, trying to nudge the phone closer to the pocket's opening so she could get a grip on it. This process seemed to take days, when in reality it could only have taken seconds, and she felt beads of sweat spring to the surface of her skin. She was so close, she had barely noticed that they were in Manhattan now, the Financial District she presumed, and in theory could be reaching their final destination any second. The traffic was stopping and starting now, and Tate finally felt the cold glass of the screen against her palm just as they pulled up behind a yellow cab at a red light.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Tatiana." His voice seemed to come out of nowhere, suddenly deafening in the otherwise silent car.

Tate was momentarily stunned, and lost her grip on her cell phone. "How do you know my full name? No one calls me that, not even my own mother."

"Helen told me."

"Helen?" It was suddenly falling into place; the reason this man's face was so familiar yet hard to place was because she'd seen it before, albeit briefly. Helen had a photo of the two of them on her desk – the two of them on their wedding day.

"She talks about you constantly. Tate this, Tate that… She thinks you're our ticket to a mansion in the suburbs."

Tate was unsure of why this was her fault; Helen was clearly excited at the prospect of having a successful client for a change. She tried not to let her confusion show, however, and chose to instead sympathise with him. "It's Alan, right?" He looked at her through the mirror, seeming both surprised and pleased that she knew his name. "That must be difficult for you; you must feel like there are three people in your marriage. Maybe if you talked to Helen, made her understand that you don't want to hear about me constantly…"

"But that's just the thing; the more she talks about you, the more I realise that you and I are soul mates!"

"Soul mates?" she replied, nervously, all the while trying to keep one eye on his face to show she was listening, and the other on his hands to make sure he wasn't about to kill them both. After all, he was clearly a few slices short of a whole pie, and the potentially terrifying thing was that he had no idea.

"Yes!" Alan replied with excitement. "You and I are both from Boston, born and raised…"

'_Lots of people are from Boston,_' she thought to herself, scarcely believing that this was really happening. If she wasn't so afraid of what he might do with a second's notice, the whole situation would be almost comical.

He continued. "We both grew up poor and are trying to make better lives for ourselves. We both have big families."

"You're right, Alan, we do have an awful lot in common. Maybe we could go and get a cup of coffee and talk about it? Just two friends, talking about ourselves, how does that sound?"

He smiled at her knowingly, but carried on regardless. "I'm not done, yet."

"Sorry. Go on, please."

"You just _get_ me, you know?" He chuckled to himself, as if he had just remembered a particularly funny anecdote. "Helen let me read an advance copy of your book – well, she left one lying around the house – and when I read your words, it's like they are my own thoughts!"

As he rambled on about how the two of them meeting at the reading that afternoon was destiny (_'destiny engineered by you,'_ she thought), Tate tried to remain calm; the last thing they needed right now was two nut-jobs in this car. They crept forward as the lights changed, and soon enough they were stopped again. Still with no idea where they were or where they were going, she went back to concentrating on getting her phone. _'Just a little more,'_ she kept telling herself.

Tate almost cried out in joy as she felt her phone being pulled free from its denim confines, but managed to keep a lid on her excitement; she had made it through the difficult part, but she was still nowhere near safety. She angled her body slightly, hoping to conceal the device as she slid it down onto the seat next to her. A quick glance up at Alan, still lost in talking about the two of them, told her that now was as good a time as any. She tapped out a message, thankful that she had a touchscreen phone and suddenly more sure than ever that trading in her Blackberry, with its keypad that sounded like nails being violently hammered, had been the best decision she'd ever made.

'KIDNAPPED' she wrote, and sent it to the one person she hoped would believe her.

* * *

**A/N I apologise for the wordiness of this chapter, and the lack of dialogue. And I really hope you guys like the way this story is playing out - I get very nervous at this stage of writing, because I desperately want to please people!**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N If I may, I'd like to dedicate this chapter to the people of Boston; the whole world has been thinking of you and praying for you this past week.**

* * *

Don sat morosely at his desk in the precinct, desperately racking his brain about how he could find Tate's real stalker. He just hoped it wasn't too late; he had no idea about what was scheduled for the remainder of her promotional visit, she wasn't taking his calls, Josh was, but only long enough to call him a few choice names and hang up, and he had no idea of how he could contact Helen. He'd thought about asking Klein, but since he picked up his final paycheck and had to disclose what had happened, he was 'blacklisted', as the man himself had called it.

Just as he was about to get up and grovel to Mac for his help, he felt his phone vibrate in his jacket pocket. Fishing it out, he almost fell off his swivel chair in relief when Tate's name greeted him on the screen. That feeling soon turned to a heavy knot in the pit of his stomach as he opened the message, however.

'KIDNAPPED'.

He didn't think a single word had ever scared him so much, and the worst part was that this was all his fault; if he had just kept his cool and waited until he had all the facts, Tate wouldn't be in this situation. It had been his job to protect her, and he had not only failed, he had practically fed her to the wolves.

For now, though, he had to push that thought to the back of his mind; he had a job to do.

* * *

"What do we do here? Do I text her back?" Flack barked, pacing Mac's office. He was itching to do something, anything, but what could he do without a little help? After all, all he had was a text message; he had no idea where Tate was, who had her, or what they wanted.

Mac shook his head. "What if her phone isn't set to 'silent'? The last thing we want to do is tip this guy off that we know he has her."

"But she needs to know that we're coming."

"Stella is on the phone to the DA right now," he nodded in her direction; they couldn't hear her through the glass walls, but she appeared to be having a rather heated conversation out in the hallway. "Once we get the OK from him, Adam is going to try and trace Tate's cell." He spoke slowly, trying to keep the younger detective calm, even though it didn't seem to be working; he hadn't seen him this agitated or fearful in a long time. "You and I have both worked this kind of case at least a hundred times, Don, so let's not get ahead of ourselves, alright?"

He nodded reluctantly, continuing his circuit of the office, all the while keeping his eyes on Stella. After a couple more minutes of watching her gesturing and shaking her head in response to the person on the other end of the phone call, she finally turned to them and gave them a thumbs up, before hurrying off to find Adam and get the ball rolling, at last.

* * *

Tate and Alan pulled up outside a Chelsea café. He put the car in park, and got out; Tate wondered as she quickly slipped her phone back in her pocket, if she was fast enough to make a run for it, especially when she saw that there were people milling about to serve as witnesses. She realised, though, that she wasn't that fast, she was wearing heels, and she had no idea how fast _he_ was. Before she had chance to formulate any kind of plan, he was opening her door for her, and gesturing for her to give him her hand. She complied, reluctantly, and he helped her out of the car.

His hand was clammy as he kept hold of it, opening the door to the café for her. '_He's calm_,' she mused, unable to get her head around just what was happening; she was still waiting for something to awaken her from this nightmare. And she still had no idea, truly, what he really wanted from her. Were they just going to talk, and then he would let her go, or was he expecting more from her? The prospect of what 'more' might be frightened her, and for the second time since she had met him, she felt her blood run cold in her veins.

As he ushered her inside, she made sure to take the seat facing the exit, still hoping her knight in NYPD armour was going to save the day. He didn't seem to notice anything was amiss, just sunk down into his seat, apparently relieved to be inside.

* * *

The team was assembled in the conference room, and Don had resumed his pacing in there rather than in Mac's office, when Adam bustled in. "I was able to track Tate's cell phone to a café in Chelsea, Mister Tea's."

"A café? What sort of kidnapper is this guy?" Danny asked to nobody in particular.

"It's from her book." All eyes in the room were on Adam now, who gradually turned a deep shade of red as he realised that his co-workers were judging his choice of reading material. "What? I like mystery novels! And she's actually quite good – she's got the lab procedure down… Sorry."

"So he's acting out her story?" Mac asked Adam.

"Oh, not so judgemental _now_, are we?" he replied jovially, but his playful grin was promptly wiped from his face as he felt the sharp bite of someone slapping the back of his head. "Hey!"

"Quit jerking us around!" Don ordered, shoving his hands deep into his pockets to prevent any more acts of physical harm befouling his colleagues. "Do you think we have time for this?"

"Sorry. Uh…" Adam took a deep breath, furrowing his brow as he tried desperately to recall the details of Tate's book. He hadn't been _entirely_ truthful when he said he'd read it; what he meant to say was that he's skimmed the potentially exciting parts, after running out to the nearest book store and making a hasty purchase the day he'd seen her in the lab with Flack. He'd been hoping to ask the detective to get her to sign it, but, he thought morosely, that ship had well and truly sailed now that he'd managed to royally piss Flack off. "Her book is about a serial killer on the loose in Boston, but the main character, Detective Jennifer Pearce, gets an anonymous call from someone who says that they know who the killer is. She's suspicious – rightly so – that it's a trap, so she arranges to meet the guy at a café which she knew her love interest frequented. And when the meeting went bad, he showed up and realised something was wrong because she was drinking tea." He cleared his throat. "She didn't like tea."

"Alright, so you're saying it was _her_ idea to go to the café?" Stella asked, chewing on the end of her pen absent-mindedly. "This guy is obviously either really impressionable, or really eager to please Tate. That could work for us."

"Let's get down there ASAP," Mac said, gathering up his files from the table and slipping his jacket back on. "Flack, have your guys set up a cordon around the café; the last thing we want is a bunch of tourists going in for afternoon tea. Once we're set up we'll get a better idea of what we're dealing with here."

* * *

"What do we have, Danny?" Mac asked, approaching the cordon where Danny was stationed, peering into the café windows with high-power binoculars.

"I can't see him, he's facing away from the window."

Don joined them now, glad that they were finally making progress. "How does she seem? Does she look like she's being coerced?"

"She looks… Confused. I don't know, he might have a gun to her or something, but I can't see."

Don adjusted his Kevlar, making a move towards the doors. "I'm going in."

"No one moves until we know for sure," Mac ordered, looking pointedly at him. "And when we do, I want Danny to go."

"What? Why?"

"Because this guy is a stalker; if he followed Tate this far, he must have tracked her while she was in the city, which means he's probably seen _you_ with her. Besides, you going in there all guns blazing isn't going to help anyone."

Before Don had time to protest, Mac and Danny were headed towards the café's entrance, the older detective giving some last minute words of encouragement. Turning away, he balled his hands into fists in frustration. He hated being powerless to stop something potentially terrible from happening – something he learned about himself in the most horrible way when Jess died.

"Dan," he called after his friend, not looking up from his hands. "Just get her out of there, alright?"

* * *

Tate looked up as the bell over the door jingled amelodically; Alan himself hadn't noticed, thankfully, because he would have been staring face-to-face with one of NYPD's finest. She recognised her potential saviour as Danny, Don's friend; the two of them had shared an abbreviated conversation in the lab the day before. _'Was it really only yesterday?'_ Tate thought suddenly. _'Time sure flies when you're having fun…'._

He caught her eye and wordlessly gestured for her to act natural, and so she tried desperately not to follow him with her eyes as he crossed the café, walking up to the counter.

Danny sighed internally, relieved as he saw that Tate was doing exactly as he had hoped; she appeared calm, and didn't make it obvious that she recognised him. His initial assessment of the situation was that she didn't have any obvious injuries, and, though he couldn't get a clear view of her captor, he didn't appear to be armed. The café was more or less empty – that was good, he reasoned – but the college-aged girl behind the counter didn't appear to have noticed him wielding a gun or knife.

He crossed over to the barista, trying to steal a glance back over his shoulder at the stalker as he did so; he was just sitting across from Tate, talking softly to her. Danny smiled as the girl – Alice, her name tag informed him – asked him what she could get for him.

"I'll have an espresso," he replied, passing his badge across the counter to her, lowering his voice before he continued. "Are you the only one working here?"

Alice nodded, her eyes teeming with confusion.

"I need you to make my coffee, then go out into the back and into the alley, alright? An officer will be waiting for you."

"What's going on?"

"We've got a potential hostage situation," he replied, looking in the direction of the only other people in the room. "Did you notice anything about that guy when they came in?"

Alice shook her head as she went to work preparing Danny's espresso. "They came in about half an hour ago. They ordered a pot of tea and two apple turnovers. He had his arm around her, I didn't think anything was wrong…"

"Don't worry. I'm going to take this to that table over there; I want you to wait a couple of minutes and then go outside, alright?"

She nodded in response, her hands trembling with the gravity of the situation she had found herself in; this was certainly not how she envisaged spending her days when she took this part-time job. Her shaking caused drops of hot coffee to jump out of the cup she was carrying and onto her skin. Then cup then shattered on the floor.

* * *

Outside, Don heard something smash, the sound echoing in his head as it reverberated through his earpiece. He was done waiting for everything to work out; if the situation was going bad, he wasn't about to let it get any worse by doing nothing. He wasn't about to let anyone else he cared about die on his watch.

Ripping out the earpiece and jumping the cordon before Mac could do or say anything to stop him, he jogged up to the entrance of the café and slipped in through the door almost unnoticed; the man he assumed to be the stalker was on his feet in the middle of the room, Danny was at the counter trying to diffuse the situation, and the woman serving the coffee was making a hasty exit out into the alley. The only person who had noticed Don walk in was Tate, who had been pulled up out of her chair with her new 'friend'. He could see she was relieved to see him, but that relief was almost entirely masked by the fear in her eyes – she knew just as well as he did that he may have just made the situation ten times worse.

He cleared his throat to get Alan's attention, slowly stepping further into the café. Danny stepped forward to meet him; all four of them were facing each other now, separated only by the table that Alan and Tate had been sitting at moments before. "Why don't we all relax for a minute, alright? You OK, Tate?" Don asked, turning his head in her direction but not breaking eye contact with the man standing dangerously close to her.

Now was not the time to come up with a sarcastic response, she realised. "We're OK," she replied eventually, her wavering voice betraying that the opposite was in fact true. "Right Alan?" She had hoped that, if she could make him believe that she was on his side, then they could all make it out of here. But that plan seemed to backfire, too.

He put his arm protectively around her shoulders, pulling her tighter to him as she recoiled away from him. Instinctively, Danny stepped forward again; he and Don already had their guns unholstered, and Tate was surprised that she hadn't actually seen them do that.

Before she knew what was happening, Alan pulled a knife from the waistband of his suit pants. Had he had that the whole time? Suddenly Tate began to realise that not only was he crazy, he was also definitely more dangerous than she had anticipated; the tea hadn't really been a reliable indicator of the situation, she mused, wondering why she was thinking about this when she was probably going to die in this God-forsaken city that had caused her nothing but trouble and heartache. Shouldn't her life be flashing in front of her eyes, or something equally poetic? Instead, all she could do was stand helplessly while the crazy son of a bitch held a knife to his throat as Danny attempted to talk him down, gun trained on him with a steady hand.

"Come on now, Alan, you don't want to do that!"

"You shouldn't have got involved! We were fine until you showed up and ruined _everything_!" He jabbed the knife in Don's direction; he could see the exasperation on Alan's face. This guy seemed to have enough crazy to spare, so he was going to have to try every hostage negotiation trick in the book to diffuse this situation. And that was when he realised that Alan had been holding the knife to his own neck – not to Tate's.

"I get it, Alan. I do." Alan merely scoffed in response, so Don carried on trying to reason with him. "You and I are pretty similar, you know. We're average guys; we get up in the morning, we go to work, we come home. But we're complex – people think they know us, but they don't, not really. You know what I'm talking about. Me, I'm really into fishing." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Danny's head turn almost indistinguishably in his direction. "See, he's my best friend and _he_ didn't even know that. But I know that when you find someone who just _gets_ you, you wanna keep 'em in your life. You think that Tate understands you like no one else does, not even your wife…"

"She does!" Alan replied, gesturing with the knife again, more wildly this time. He loosened his grip on Tate's shoulders and inched closer to the detectives.

"But that's not a reason to kidnap her. And what now? You're just going to take her back to Boston and live happily ever after?" He could swear he saw Tate scowl at him briefly over Alan's shoulder, unimpressed that he seemed to be giving him ideas – at least she wasn't too traumatised for that.

"Why not?! What – you don't think I could make her happy?"

Alan turned his back on Tate. Quietly, cautiously, she stepped away from her captor and grabbed the closest weapon she could find, bringing it down on Alan's head as hard and as fast as she could. The china teapot smashed as it came into contact with his skull, pieces flying out in all directions, the tiniest shards clinging to his hair. He fell forwards, staggering closer to Danny, who jabbed a boot-clad foot between his shoulder blades and pinned him to the floor.

"Fishing? You distracted this guy with a story about _fishing_?" he muttered, unclipping his cuffs from his belt, attaching them to Alan's wrists and hauling him up and out of the café. The sound of him sobbing and moaning her name gradually faded as the door slammed shut behind them.

Tate wilted as she watched them go, the reality of what had happened over the last few hours – well, the last few weeks, really – hit her with such force that she felt she had to sit down. Instead, Don crossed over to her, appearing by her side almost instantaneously, and pulled her into a hug.

Her voice was muffled against his chest; her mind had been desperate not to hug him back, but her arms appeared to have other ideas, drawing him closer. "Now do you believe me?!"

"I'm sorry. I…"

"No," she interrupted, surprised at the fierceness of her words, especially when she suddenly realised just how drained her body – and mind – felt. "You said some really, really mean things to me, remember? You essentially called me a sneaky, conniving, money-grabbing bitch!"

His act of heroism and bravery was not playing out the way he had hoped, so he did the only thing he could think of; he kissed her, cutting off her rightfully angry tirade. He hoped with all his heart that she would kiss him back, and when she finally did after what felt to him like an eternity, his mind was finally at rest – she was safe, at last.

He gently released his hold on her and stooped a little to look in her eyes. "I know. You were right."

She flashed him a satisfied smile, gratefully embracing him one more. "Thank God you're a better cop than you are a bodyguard."

* * *

**A/N2 The end! I honestly don't think I've ever got so knotted up in trying to write an ending before - every time I tried to finish this chapter, it just kept coming out wrong! So I hope you weren't left unsatisfied by how I chose to end it...**

**As always, my eternal and most sincere thanks go to you, dear reader; thank you all so much for reading, subscribing and reviewing. You have made this one of my favourite stories to have written; so much so, that I hope to write more Flack stories at some point! Stay tuned!**


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